


Clearly, Now, Again

by elle_stone



Series: Wished He Would Leave [2]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Break Up, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wish I could explain it.  I guess I could try.  I could say: we were special; or: we were happy; or: we were in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clearly, Now, Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for challenges 275, 265, and 263 at the speed_rent community on livejournal. Challenge 275 was to write for a previous challenge; I chose 265, which was to rewrite a previous entry, flipping some aspect, and 263, the entry I flipped, was to write a fic in which two characters argue about something "silly." 
> 
> In other words, this is "Wished He Would Leave" from Roger's POV.

I wish I could explain it. I guess I could try. I could say: we were special; or: we were happy; or: we were in love. But. What would any of that mean?

 

And if I bothered to say it, would you believe me?

 

*

 

He used to suffer from insomnia—up all hours on the couch in the middle of the loft with his books, reading by the light of one lamp, or, sometimes, by candles, if the power was out. The books were old, cheap, a few cents at a used bookstore, sometimes free. They fell apart where they were sewn together at the spine. Some of the pages were ripped. The paper was old and yellowed and the words were always perfectly typed, thick black ink arranged in straight lines, down page after page after page.

 

There is an image I have of him now. Standing by the sink absently trying to open a bottle of pills one handed, and in the other hand, one of those books again. He read all the time in those early week, never looked at me even once, no matter how many times I silently wished that he would, how much I needed him to.

 

*

 

I said we were in love. But you should laugh to hear me say such a thing. We were always fighting—he was always fighting me. He said we shouldn’t, as if there was some grand law that one of us was breaking. I’m not sure if he meant he was, or I was. 

 

But I guess now he’d say it doesn’t matter, either way.

 

*

 

I would go to his classes just to watch him. I would try to distract him, if I could, but oh, he was perfectly composed all the time. I would write down his words just because they came from his mouth. Like a school kid in first love.

 

*

 

And when we fought, I would feel all of his anger, restrained, deep beneath that surface that I could never break. I could have handled him, if he had broken. But even in the moments that he hated me, he sighed only: I won’t fight with you. Stop. Roger. Stop.

 

I would break and he would stand, close his eyes, not watch me as I hit the wall to crack my fist. I would storm out of the door, unable to stop until the shapes around me were blackness and the world spun.

 

*

 

I told you about those books. I tried to read them, tried to follow them, took them with me always, everywhere, until they got lost in the heavy stream of bright lights, crowds, and noise, at one of those shows he never came to see.

 

When I came home, he seemed so tired. So exhausted, as if he had been waiting for me. We fought, for hours even though I knew I could not win. And when he left I fell down on the couch, my stomach rising, falling, my head spinning around. I didn’t know what to do. I will say this clearly now, again. I never knew what to do.

 

*

 

I made coffee. He wanted to talk outside. We stood on the fire escape and he looked at me as if to memorize me. That’s when I knew, I think. 

 

I apologized anyway, because I wanted him to know:

 

I meant every last single word I ever said to him. The anger was real but—whatever it was that I once thought was love—that was real, too.

 

He just leaned over the railing—didn’t look at me—didn’t answer me—and I knew he was living in his own mind for a while. I was too afraid to live the way he did, and always had been. I was terrified, suddenly terrified, that we would never touch again. So I put a hand on his back, let my head fall on his shoulder, leaned on him because he, at least of the two of us, had strength.

 

“You win,” I told him. “You win.”

 

I wish that I could say that was a lie.

 

*

 

I replaced everything.

 

At least, of all of this, I can say that with certainty. I replaced the books. I even replaced his last memory of me. I wanted him to think, later, of the sound of my voice in his ear or the feel of my feet against his feet or the pressure of my arms around his body, and know that if that was to be our end, at least we had no regrets.


End file.
